The Doctor’s Truth: Part 3: Chapter 42

As Mom clears the plates, Dad gets up from the table. I feel his strong grip on my shoulder, a squeeze.

“Come up to my study. It’ll only take a minute.”

Dad’s study is non-negotiable. I grew up dreading the words see me in my study. His study was where I got reprimanded for less than perfect grades. It was where I got sent to when I’d pulled another foolish stunt over at the marina. It was where we sat down for big conversations, where I decided on where to go to college.

The last time I’d been called into his study was the night I told the family I’d proposed to Nadine. He’d closed the door and told me sternly, Is she pregnant? Because you know we can handle that.

“Oooh, he’s in trouble,” Kenzi says, and Donovan cackles. They’re both flying high…but at least they’re having fun.

“Be right back, losers,” I tell them. The loser is meant to be a term of endearment, but it makes Donovan frown. Words come out different in the King house.

Nadine rises from the table as well, and even though she hasn’t been instructed to, she follows my dad and me upstairs. It’s then that it hits me—this is planned.

Whatever this is, it’s something they’ve been cooking up. Together. I turn my bones to steel and inwardly brace.

Dad’s study is upstairs, the last door on the right. The door is always closed. He opens it, and when I walk through, I immediately feel the temperature drop a couple of degrees.

He has his own zone and his own heating and cooling system in here.

It’s—literally—his own private domain.

The doors close behind us.

The walls are the dark blue of Vincent van Gogh’s Starry Night. He has a bookshelf and a filing cabinet on one side and a glass case of achievements on the left. Awards and honors the hospital has received over the years from the medical community. Framed photographs of him shaking hands with important people—politicians, society men.

My dad takes his place behind his desk—stained oak, decorated. His diplomas hang on the wall over his shoulders like bodyguards.

Nadine takes the chair on his left—a high back, usually my spot of choice, but it’s fine. I settle into the one beside her. Neither of us look at each other.

My father strokes his beard once, as he always does before launching into a serious conversation. “Nadine,” he starts, “we’re so glad you could join us for dinner, as always.”

“Happy to be here.” She smiles and crosses one leg over the other, like she’s the guest on a talk show.

My father’s eyes shift to me. “I got the promotional images back from the production company. Take a look.”

He pushes a folder across the desk, and I open it up. I fan out four shiny prints. They share the same header, “On the Cutting Edge with Dr. Jason King,” and the subtitle, “As seen on the Dr. Mazie Show!” The images are different, though: there’s a few of me with my hands in the middle of a pretend surgery.

It’s so fake, so put-on, and the images make my stomach churn in a bad way.

Nadine leans in, and her arm brushes against mine. She taps her nail on a photo: one of me sitting on a stool, my sleeves pulled up at my elbows, stethoscope hanging around my neck, smiling for the camera. “That’s my favorite,” she says.

I’m not quite sure why she’s here, or why she has an opinion in the matter, and it rubs me the wrong way. I close the folder. “So what next?” I ask.

“Next, they’re flying a small crew to Lighthouse Medical. They’re going to interview you, as well as a few staff members. If that goes well, they’ll pitch the footage to their team.”

Nadine’s phone buzzes at her side. She shifts her attention, pulls it out, and starts going through it while my father talks.

My skin buzzes. He would never allow me to disrespect him like that.

But he doesn’t seem to notice her. Instead, he leans in and continues. “It is, essentially, the final test, so needless to say, the interviews have to go well.”

“Understood.”

“This segment could bring in big investors,” my father continues. “We could build out the hospital. Update our equipment. So it’s important that we make a good impression. As a united front.”

“What does this have to do with me?” I ask, even though I already feel the inkling, a trickle of dread sliding down the back of my ear.

My father comes out and says it: “I need you two to pretend to be married for the interviews.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I scoff. “We’re divorced.”

“It’s for the camera,” my father continues.

“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s important that we show a—”

“United front. Yeah. You said that.”

My father is—as always—a stone. Impenetrable. Calm. Meanwhile, I’ve always been the uncontrollable one. The temper. My anger rises like a storm.

“Did you agree to this?” I ask Nadine. Even I can hear the snap in my tone, like a rubber band pulled too far.

She says it like it’s nothing: “Celebrities do it all the time. Brad and Angelina. Tom and Nicole.”

She doesn’t even avert her eyes from her phone when she talks to me. It’s the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“This?” I motion to her and her phone. “This is the kind of shit that drove me crazy. Can you look at me when you talk to me?”

Her dark eyes flicker to me and narrow. Like my father, she has no inflection when she says, “Are you angry with me, or are you angry with the situation?”

“Try all of the above.”

“It’s just TV, Jason,” she says. “It’s not personal.”

They’re cyborgs—emotionless, cut from the same cloth. They draw clear lines between business transactions and real life. They don’t mind peddling lies to get what they want.

How can they both sit there so calmly while I feel like a ripped sail flapping in the wind?

“Our marriage,” I growl. “Was that not personal, too? Just for show?”

“Nadine.” My father’s deep voice cuts through the heated conversation smoothly. “I think I should talk to Jason alone for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

Nadine’s gaze fixes on me, but she rises from her chair obediently. “Calm down,” she murmurs to me on her way out.

Calm down. My two least favorite words in the English language. I curl my fingers tightly around the arms of my chair and try to remember to breathe.

I am Jason King. Top surgeon at Hannsett Island. I am enough.

The door softly clicks closed behind her.

We’re alone, and there’s a little more space in the office. My rage has room to stretch, and my jaw unclenches.

“I know your relationship with her is complicated,” my father says smoothly.

“It’s not complicated,” I tell him. “We’re divorced. It’s simple. And it’s over.”

“All I’m asking is for you to wear your ring and stand next to her and smile. For one night. Surely you have the capacity to think outside yourself for one night.”

“I can’t,” I repeat. “I’m seeing someone.”

Someones, technically.

My father’s frown deepens. “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Jason—”

“I can’t do it. Okay? I’m a surgeon. Not an actor.” I stand. “Can I go now?”

His lips tighten. I don’t wait for him to respond. I turn and put my hand on the door handle.

“You’re being selfish,” he says. “You have been since you were a child. You always think of yourself first.”

“I’m not. I’m just doing the right thing.”

“Think about it,” my father says.

“Sure.”

I open the door and exit, closing it hard behind me.

I don’t get too far down the hall, though. Donovan is standing there, arms crossed, shoulders hunched around his ears.

“Hey…you okay?” I ask.

He shakes his head. He’s got that on-pins-and-needles look.

My old bedroom is right here, so I open the door for him. “Here…let’s chat.” I touch his arm, but he leans away from it. He ducks into the room instead, and I follow him inside.

They’ve changed it up. It’s a guest room now. Sheets are made, the whole thing smells like Febreze. There are still traces of me, though. My shelf of first-place trophies—everything from third grade science fair to the college track team. A couple of old family photos. There’s a picture of me and Nadine on our wedding day, which Mom must’ve framed and put in here while I was gone. Wishful thinking?

Donovan paces the short length of my room like a lion and slips his hands over the back of his head. “It was about me, wasn’t it?”

“What?”

“Your father wanted to talk to you. Was it about me?”

“No—why would it be about you?”

“I don’t know,” Donovan snaps, “maybe because I showed up to family night high as a kite!”

“You do sound a little paranoid right now…”

A noise leaves his throat, almost like a growl. “He might just be daddy to you, but in case you’ve forgotten, he’s also my boss. If I lose my job—”

I hold up my hand. “You’re not going to lose your job.”

“That’s easy for you to say!” His lips press together. “You do this. All the time.”

“What?”

“You make me feel like an asshole. You put me in these situations that turn me into the villain.”

“You ate the brownies. All on your own. Believe it or not, I wasn’t trying to sabotage you.”

“Sabotage! That’s the word. You’re a saboteur.” Donovan flops back in bed suddenly. His eyes flick over the ceiling. “Is this your room?”

I shift my weight. “Uh. Yeah. My old room.”

“It reeks of latent homosexuality.”

“Huh?”

“You have a naked man on your wall.”

“That’s…Muhammad Ali. And he’s not naked. He’s wearing shorts.”

“I bet he didn’t wear shorts in your dreams.”

“No comment.”

Donovan sighs loudly and rubs his hand over his face. “Ignore me. I’m just…stoned.”

Carefully, I sit on the edge of the bed beside him. “I don’t think you’re a villain,” I tell him.

“No?”

“You’re a good guy.” I pick at lint on my pants. “Hell…I admire you.”

Now Donovan scoffs on a laugh. “You admire me?” he asks dubiously.

“Sure I do. You’re a better doctor than I am. You fuck who you want. No matter what the consequences. You stay true to yourself. Even when it’s hard. Even my dad likes you more than he likes me.”

Another chuckle from Donovan. “Probably true.”

“He went to your med school graduation.”

“Yeah. He did.”

“He didn’t go to mine.”

Donovan props himself up on an elbow, half sitting up in bed, and squints at me. “What?”

I shake my head. “Mom went. My brother went. Dad sent a card. ‘Congratulations on your big day.’ With a new credit card enclosed.”

Donovan examines me. “You’ll never be your own man if you spend your time trying to please your parents.”

“Easy for you to say. Both of your parents loved you unconditionally. I’ve never known what love looks like without hoops you have to jump through to attain it.”

“You sound like a circus animal.”

“I feel like one.”

“So what do you want?” His eyes are on mine. So dark. So penetrating. They cut right through. “Not you—Leonard King’s son. You. Jason. What the hell do you want?”

I swallow hard. My throat is dry. “I don’t know.”

“Yes. You do. You’re just too afraid to take it.”

I reach out and grab him. His surprised mmf! gets muffled against my lips.

But he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t push me off. After a moment, his tongue finds my teeth, and he invites himself into my mouth.

The way his tongue curls against mine sends a jolt down my spine and straight to my cock. I hear myself groan as we sway together. Our bodies find each other as I dig my tongue into his mouth, drinking him in deeply.

“I’m too high to bottom,” Donovan pants when we break for air, “just grind against me.”

“Okay…”

Donovan rolls himself over, ungracefully, like a flopping fish. I press my body against his, sealing myself to him. His back, my chest. His ass, my hips. I push his hair back, and it’s so straight, so stubborn, it sticks up like porcupine quills when I rub it the wrong way. I nuzzle against the back of his neck, inhale him, and nibble his shoulder, the bit his shirt leaves bare.

I roll my body against his, slowly, with purpose. I move the way I would if I was inside of him, and the notion makes me swollen with need. When Donovan pushes back against me, adding friction, it’s not in tandem. I have a rhythm, but he has a purpose—to bring us both to sloppy climaxes, and fast. He slots his rear against me and wiggles, grinding on my cock in a way that takes the breath from me.

I regain control and press him tightly into the mattress. I grind on him, and he grinds against my bed.

The noises he makes are animal—throaty grunts and shaky uhs into the mattress. I don’t even know if he’s aware he’s making them. His face is to the side, and his eyes are tightly closed, concentrated, mouth open in pleasure. He grips the bedspread under him, balling it. A sound escapes him, loud, and it sends a bolt of panic through me.

I try to remind him, “My parents are downstairs…”

“I don’t care,” Donovan growls, and the noise sends shivers down my spine. “Don’t fucking stop.”

He reaches up and grabs the back of my neck, holding me tightly, pinning me there. I want him. Badly. I want to feel our naked bodies together. But somehow this—even though we’re both fully clothed—feels just as good. Seeing him unravel underneath me is almost more than I can take, and I don’t want this to stop.

“Flip,” Donovan says suddenly. He yanks my shirt, and I follow his lead, rolling onto my back on the bed.

Now, Donovan climbs on top of me. He drapes his body over mine, molding us together like wet clay. I can feel him now—his erection bulges, radiates heat. He ruts unevenly, and I feel his cock hunt on my pelvis before it nuzzles against my cock, and his jerky thrusts send such a hot friction through me it makes my throat dry.

I don’t know where to put my body. I’m suddenly six feet of awkward. Where should I put my arms? My hands? They’re stuck to my sides, useless. Yet Donovan gyrates over me as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for him.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks suddenly.

My brain freezes. I know the answer, but my tongue won’t let me say it. So I sputter out a “Huh?”

“I said…” He twists his hips in a way that sends sparks from my groin to my toes. “Do you want me inside of you? Have you?”

“Have I…uh…?”

“Have you ever had someone inside of you?”

Somewhere on my shelf of trophies beside my bed sits a first-place award for debate team. But all my oratory skills go out the window at his question. I’m fumbling over my words. “I don’t…uh…no…”

Donovan’s hands plant on the mattress on either side of me. He bows his head so his body against mine. His voice tumbles into my ear. “I’ll show you how good it feels. I’ll hit places inside of you that you didn’t know existed.”

My neck burns. My face feels red hot. He’s grinding me against the edge of my pleasure.

He continues, his voice weaving through my lust-fogged brain. “And when I find it…that spot inside you that makes you whimper…I’m not going to stop. I’m going to make you blow so hard, it’ll turn you inside out. You’re never going to want anything else but my cock, buried to the hilt.”

My fists grab empty air at my sides, clenching then unclenching, fingers splaying.

“Donovan…” His name comes out as a warning. My voice is so hoarse, it’s almost unrecognizable. “I’m going to…uh…”

Donovan’s laugh is a warm puff of air against my collarbone. “I know.”

He doesn’t stop. He pivots his hips into mine—tight, rapid thrusts—and I know I should, but I can’t hold back anymore. The moan that escapes me is loud, and he swallows it at the last second with his own tongue, sealing his mouth against mine as I spasm with pleasure underneath him.

My lap is wet, a stain I’m going to regret in a couple of seconds. But I can’t think of anything but reaching that precipice again, and my fingers finally leap into action, gripping his hips as I hump myself through the last shuddery waves of it.

I can’t stop moaning, and I bite his shoulder to stifle the sound. When I finally pull back, breathless, he has wet, pink teeth marks on his neck.

“Fuck,” I swear.

“Yeah,” Donovan agrees. “Fuck.”

He kisses me again, and this time his tongue melts me. I’m six foot five. I can lift two hundred pounds. But underneath Donovan, my bones are weak. When his tongue slides against mine, tasting like red wine and hunger, I’m as vulnerable as a rabbit, heart kicking in my chest.

I’m so lost in his kiss, I don’t even hear familiar heels on the hardwood until it’s too late. “Honeybear?” my mom’s voice calls out, thin as reeds. “Is everything okay?”

She tries the handle—and I locked the door, Jesus-God-fuck I know I locked the door—but the panic fries every nerve in my body for that split second before the lock catches and keeps her out.

“It’s fine!” I call out quickly. “Everything’s fine. Just…had a little…uh…”

“Accident?” Donovan teases.

I slap my hand across Donovan’s mouth. His whole body trembles with silent laughter.

“Do you need a hand?” my mom offers, and I want to die.

“Nope. I’m good. I’ll be right down. Thank you.”

Her kitten heels click away. When my mom leaves, I finally release him from my grip.

“You’re right,” he says once he’s freed. “My life did turn out way better than yours, honeybear.”

“Shut up and help me clean up.”